Jane Reed, the story of Jane Eyre's mother
by Windinthereeds
Summary: NOW COMPLETE with the chapters in their proper order. It was written like Star Wars with the middle being first etc. Thank you for your patience with the updates. I always wondered about Jane's parents.
1. Chapter 1

What happened before...

I was always intrigued by the story of Jane's parents. A rich girl who runs off with the poor curate could be a whole Bronte story in itself.

_"Well, Jane?"_

_"If you please, sir, I want leave of absence for a week or two."_

_"What to do?--where to go?"_

_"To see a sick lady who has sent for me."_

_"What sick lady?--where does she live?"_

_"At Gateshead; in -shire."_

_"-shire? That is a hundred miles off! Who may she be that sends for people to see her that distance?"_

_"Her name is Reed, sir--Mrs. Reed."_

_"Reed of Gateshead? There was a Reed of Gateshead, a magistrate."_

_"It is his widow, sir."_

_"And what have you to do with her? How do you know her?"_

_"Mr. Reed was my uncle--my mother's brother."_

_"The deuce he was! You never told me that before: you always said you had no relations."_

_"None that would own me, sir. Mr. Reed is dead, and his wife cast me off."_

_"Why?"_

_"Because I was poor, and burdensome, and she disliked me."_

_"But Reed left children?--you must have cousins? Sir George Lynn was talking of a Reed of Gateshead yesterday, who, he said, was one of the veriest rascals on town; and Ingram was mentioning a Georgiana Reed of the same place, who was much admired for her beauty a season or two ago in London."_

_"John Reed is dead, too, sir: he ruined himself and half-ruined his family, and is supposed to have committed suicide. The news so shocked his mother that it brought on an apoplectic attack."_

Edward Rochester returned to the billiard room. There was more mystery to this governess than ever. So, she was related to the Reed family, but he would be confounded to make any connection between his bright, tiny Jane and the Rubenesque but vapid Georgianna Reed he saw at a party in London two years previously. Neither could Edward associate the pureness of Jane with the dissipated and debauched John Reed. He noticed that men fell silent, coughed and changed the subject when John Reed was mentioned.

What on earth happened twenty years ago? How was Jane so cut off from the society and family of her mother? Pondering the falseness of social niceties and how his class turned on their own, Edward sat in one of the side chairs, pretending to study the carpet.

His musings were interrupted by Blanche Ingram. In an attempt to make small talk, she curled her lip and alluded to Jane's earlier appearance in the billiard room---how annoying it must be to have the responsibility of a child, how the help always manages to ruin a perfectly lovely morning. "What brought that person to this part of the house today, Edward? She is always creeping about, watching us. Was her little charge naughty today? She needed the spelling of a word for a lesson? " Edward looked blank and a little annoyed at Blanche's attempts at wit. She would have benefited from at least learning manners from HER governesses instead of tormenting them. Edward sighed, a sardonic reply appearing and leaving the tip of his tongue. Edward gathered forbearance and said it was a small matter and dismissed the subject. The house guests were soon to be gone. When Jane returned from her journey, he would have claim to his little charge all to himself--for life.

Edward turned to Sir George Lynn. "I was wondering if you could enlighten me again with your story about John Reed. I seem to remember a celebrated beauty, Georgiana Reed being presented some seasons ago. Was that his sister?" There was the usual silence that met with the mention of John Reed. Mr. Eshton broke the inevitable silence. "Yes, Georgiana Reed is John Reed's sister."

Rochester recalled the ballroom. The event took place while King William IV, "Silly Billy" was still alive. As the king became a prude as a reformation of his earlier wild youth, he also attempted to set some standards by example and by edicts. The dissolute character of the social life during the Regency and reign of William's brother George IV were erased from public memory. At the coming out parties in the reign of William IV there was to be no alcohol, all conversation was polite, refined and insipid. Any and all that would breathe "Scandal" was excised from all polite conversation.

Edward realized that if his Jane had not been cheated from her birthright as a part of the Reed family, such a dull setting for a coming out party would have been her fate. He smiled, trying to imagine Jane in the setting of a London ball room, forced to make dull small talk, dressed in a white debutante gown, smiling on cue, summoning the expected bland coy remarks that were to pass as accepted wit, spending her days selecting the correct morning dress to write correspondence, the correct walking dress for being seen on Rotten Row on the arm of some fop, bored to death...

"What are you finding so amusing?" Blanche's face was sour as it always was when his attention strayed from her. Thank God he had no real intention of marrying this fortune hunter. He could not't bear to be in her presence for another day, never mind the the next decades. If married to Blanche, he would be forced to die after ten years of matrimony in self-defense.

"I recall that the party that included the Reed girls was interrupted by a group of drunken revelry makers." "Ah yes, the young John Reed." said Mr. Eshton. "Did he go through the family fortune?" Edward asked, again tried to draw out his guests on the topic of the Reeds of Gateshead. If Jane had been truly part of the Reed family, she would she not also have been entitled to a part of their their fortune along with the right to a London presentation?

"The whole fortune from the late John Reed, the late magistrate of Gateshead Hall, was it entirely handed over to Master John Reed?" asked Edward, "Was the late John Reed the only offspring?" This time, Lady Lynn entered the conversation. "Well, the younger John Reed may have a reputation that was unsuitable for a good family, but I can tell you that scandal is not new to that family." She looked at Lady Ingram. The two dowagers passed a silent knowing look and nodded their heads. For one ridiculous moment Edward thought the rouged and turbaned ladies did indeed resemble grotesque puppets or waxwork dummies he remembered from a London Gallery.

"Oh do tell us, mama!" said Blanche. "There is no harm, the people in question must be dead and gone or married and buried in the country with ten children by now." Lady Lynn looked at Lady Ingram. " Sarah Gibson married John Reed of Gateshead. I cannot think how that fine woman must suffer to have scandal again associated with her family."

Rochester leaned forward. Anything that was connected to his Jane was fascinating. There was more to this quiet little soul than even she knew. Or, did she choose poverty and obscurity to any association with the Reed family. Perhaps the elder Reed had a reputation of sowing wild oats before he stood before the bar and became a lawyer and magistrate. Many a young man of twenty years back or more, when first on their own in London society, were swept up by the wild society as the leader was none other than the late King George IV and his circle. Rochester smiled outwardly, but shuddered inwardly as he smothered his own personal recollections of the time.

"Was the elder John Reed such a rake and dissolute before he married and became a sober magistrate in the service of the crown?" "Oh good heavens, no!" Exclaimed Colonel Dent, laughing. "Reed of Gateshead was a milquetoast. I was at Cambridge with him—he was happiest when he buried himself in some ancient books of medieval law or Chaucer. We tried to get him to go around with us, he just could not." Colonel Dent shook his head, remembering the retiring man from Gateshead. "John Reed never went to Town, he returned home to Gateshead to supervise the upbringing of his young sister Jane. He eventually married an heiress, a very formidable woman if I ever saw one. Sarah Gibson was not very handsome, somewhat older than Reed, but wealthy—her family was anxious to marry her off and John Reed was feeling the pressure to continue the family name----well, we all knew who was the true head of that household. Reed ruled in the -shire magistrate court and sat in Parliament, but Sarah Reed ruled at home."

"Was Sarah Reed the source of the scandal you alluded to?" Edward was getting impatient with the guests. Somehow, they were avoiding the heart of the topic. He sensed that it concerned his Jane's mother.

Lady Lynn glanced around with her habitual imperious expression. She was obviously wanted to add a juicy tidbit of gossip, but was reluctant to appear too eager. She turned to Lady Ingram. "My dear, do you must remember the young sister of Reed of Gateshead?" Lady Ingram pulled a face of mock scandal—in reality she was only too eager to add information to the conversation. "How could we forget? The little thing was presented with my sister." Edward tried to associate "a little thing" with his modest quiet Jane, and could not.

Mrs. Dent gently entered the conversation. "I found her to be a lovely girl—I was presented at the same time. I believe that Jane Reed even caught the attention of Lord Byron." "Was the Reed girl such a beauty?" Lady Ingram coughed and laughed derisively. Clearly, she disliked Jane Reed and was eager to add any venom; her reticence to gossip was feigned. "Very puny, not a fine figure at all." Mrs. Dent gently put in again. "Miss Jane was very clever and learned. She was also lovely----very fair. Very fine features. Many of the French painters who ran from the revolution wanted to paint her. Every young man wanted to dance with her. She had pale hair, large sea green eyes, very pale transparent skin. Unlike Georgiana Reed Miss Jane Reed was of tiny stature. I recall that she looked like a child. "

Mr. Eshton looked thoughtful. "I remember Miss Jane Reed calling on my sister Augusta. The dress of the time made her look like a child. I thought that she was someone brought to be my playmate. I did not't realize that she was a few years older" He did not add that dear Augusta was scandalized when she heard that Miss Jane had run off with a poor curate.

Lady Lynn snorted. "Well, she lost her standing in society with a Classics tutor". Rochester looked sharply at Lady Lynn. Blanche looked up and said "What was an heiress, a debutante doing with a Latin tutor? Were they going to send her to Oxford to take up holy orders?" There was a rippling of laughter in the room. How ludicrous, the thought of sending a woman from a good family to Oxford or any learning beyond a few accomplishments and the efficient management of a large house.

"I believe that John Reed was several years older than his sister. Their parents died when the sister was an infant. He raised her more as his spoiled daughter than a sister." Lady Ingram snorted "She never learned to run a household. He indulged her foolish ways and look at the result."

Rochester looked at Lady Ingram. "What happened to Miss Jane Reed?" Asked Rochester, again. Lady Ingram again put on a face of mock scandal. "Sarah Reed arranged for Jane to be married to a son of a local landowner. He was a rising star in the Royal Navy. The share of the Reed fortune would have aided the career of a fine young servant of the crown. But, Jane Reed eloped with the Gateshead curate, someone who attended Cambridge with her brother and was allowed into Gateshead to be a classics tutor. It was rumored that Miss Jane was already with child."

A gasp went around the room. The Eshton girls fanned themselves. Blanche and Mary Ingram made themselves to look faint. When she thought no one was looking, Blanche slyly opened one eye ever-so-slightly so that she would not miss any further narrative.

Lord Ingram said "Mother, please---consider the delicacy of the ears of our innocent young ladies." Lady Lynn continued the story. "Poor Sarah Reed, she worked so hard to get the young woman presented, to find a good marriage. She needed to get her off her hands and out of Gateshead. All that time, the ungrateful girl was writing to the curate on the sly. The scandal nearly finished the Reed family. Sarah Reed removed herself from all society. Then, when she was a widow, she had the responsibility of raising her children and the maintaining of Gateshead until Miss Eliza and Georgiana had their coming out."

Edward again turned to the ladies Ingram and Lynn. "You have a 'Tale Half Told', mesdames." He said. "Please at least satisfy my curiosity about Miss Jane. What happened to the headstrong girl and her curate?"

Lady Lynn said "They were cut off from all society and the family. Sarah Reed had to think of the reputation and future of her own children. The foolish pair ended their days do-gooding in a large but poor parish in ---. Of course, after eloping with a magistrate's sister and causing such a scandal, the silly man could not possibly hope for a comfortable church appointment. They died, but left a child. I heard from my sister that Sarah Reed was forced to take in the orphan daughter from that low marriage. The child must be dead for I heard no more of it. Good riddance. Tainted blood."

The conversation turned to other things, the relief that the new Queen, Victoria, was setting an example of moral decency for the country. Their talk faded into the background as Edward was lost in a reverie, about a fair young innocent, reading Latin and Greek, a very Agrippina for a sister-in-law, being presented during the regency---when the thoroughly debauched prince Regent (later George IV) and his court led the way of the smart set.


	2. Chapter 5

Chapter 3 Empty Heart of Gateshead

Jane remembered thinking, as a child, that Gateshead was a splendid hall. But, now with her new eyes of experience, Jane saw how hollow the old building was. Especially after living at Thornfield, Gateshead was a cold and heartless place---neglected. The Reed fortune was gone to pay for the dissipation of the now dead Master John Reed. Jane saw the fading and frayed carpets, the brown water stains on the plaster from a shoddy roof, and dark squares on the walls where paintings were missing. Bessie whispered to her that Mrs. Reed was forced to sell the artwork, along with the silver and other heirlooms to pay the mounting gambling debts of Master Reed. The house itself was mortgaged. All of the servants, save Bessie, Bessie's husband and the cook, were let go. Even the valuable furniture was sold. What chairs and sofas were left were the pieces that were too frayed and faded to be of any value.

The massive mahogany furniture of the Red Room were sold. This was to salve family pride to pay for Mrs. Reed's funeral. Jane wondered, would the ghost of Mr. Reed would travel with the furniture and terrorize the new owner? Or, would his spirit now rest, knowing that Jane was an independent woman who survived? A woman who loved...Jane again smothered the agonizing thought of Mr. Rochester, chiding herself for allowing such a hopeless sentiment rise.

Georgiana Reed returned to London with her mother's relatives. The burden of closing the house was left to Miss Eliza. Jane stayed on, in spite of her heart yearning to return to Thornfield. This was Jane's final courtesy to her mother's family. Jane felt that Eliza, in spite of the coldness and cruelty that she showed toward Cousin Jane in their childhood, should not be burdened with the whole task of going through paperwork and the legal business alone.

There were tedious meetings with lawyers and bankers. At first, these gentlemen were prepared to be condescending to Eliza Reed, feeling that they were going to deal with mere weak and ignorant women. They soon found that Eliza was a formidable caretaker of the last of the Reed estate. Jane, too, was able to use her keen intellect and sound common sense in helping Eliza with the perusing the endless documents, codices and amendments that always accompany the death and distribution of a great house and estate. Jane surprised the lawyers with a keen intellect and a directness that was tempered with her patience and kindness.

Jane truly pitied her cousins Eliza and Georgiana. In the past, Jane was the despised and poor dependent relative with a bleak future of near poverty. Meanwhile, the Reed girls had a young adulthood with the prospect of coming out parties, dancing with fortune hunting beaux from neighboring landowners and eventual marriage with great houses to oversee. They never took their educations seriously. All was merely decoration or "accomplishments" to attract husbands. However, for Jane, every scrap of education was the means to have a roof over her head and food on the table. Jane also knew that in education was riches far beyond a sumptuous dowry, advantageous marriage or large rent roll from an inheritance. But, now Jane pondered the reversal of her destiny and that of her cousins. The wheel of Fortune and Divine Providence was a mystery. Eliza and Georgiana were forced to fall on the good will of others while Jane had cultivated the means to make her own way in the world alone. Plus, Jane had the letter from her previously unknown uncle in Madeira.

Left alone in Gateshead, Jane wandered into the now empty rooms and observed the ransacked cupboards. As a child, if she had touched a desk, sated her curiosity about an unused room or had even thought of making believe or play-acting with the discarded dresses and hats from ancient trunks in the attic, she would have been severely punished. Now, molding boxes of correspondence were being hauled from the attics and taken to a bonfire to be burned. Old clothing from as far off as the reign of George I was taken apart and was either given to the few remaining servants to be reused or sold to the rag and bone peddlers for its weight. Anything and everything of value was to be bartered so that the debts could be paid.

Eliza Reed spent her days preoccupied with her final plans to leave England for France. When Jane asked if she could look through some of the cast off clothing to see if she could reuse some of the nicer fabrics, Eliza, abstracted with her future did not object. In the old days, Jane mused, Miss Eliza would have immediately tattled to Mrs. Reed, wailing that Jane had no right to anything in the house.

One trunk remained. Bessie had set it aside and out of the view of the ever avaricious Miss Eliza. "It is only fit for the fire, Miss" said Bessie. "Itsa full of mildew and like. The vermin have made a veritable mansion out of mosta it". Then, she whispered to Jane that the trunk was in the old nursery. "It's not right that you never had a thing from your poor mother. I think there are old frocks from the Georges or even the Prince Regent's day. Silk and like. All ruined by water."

The old nursery was chilled, even though the calendar said that Spring was advancing. Somehow, even the warmest summer day could never penetrate Gateshead. Jane moved to the leather trunk. Much of the brass binding was rusted green due to its time in the attics. The initials of the owner, outlined in brass nails, was still visible. The letters were "J. R." . Jane opened the trunk. A malodorous combination of vermin infestation and mildew assailed her nostrils.

The trunk was empty, save for a few items. Jane removed a blue gown, appropriate for day wear of a young lady some twenty years past. The silk of the gown was shattered from being ill-kept. Jane could see that it was of the style brought from France during the time of the Prince Regent George. It had a high waistline, shaped like a large letter "A" and had some embroidery of an almost medieval or Gothic flair around the neckline. Even with the damage, the fabric was the finest and both the piece work and the embroidery was the product of a smart London couture house. Jane smiled at the foibles of the upper classes and their frantic pursuance of fashion. Even with France and Napoleon being the Great Enemy, the ladies and gentlemen of that far off era were only too eager to follow the dictates of Parisian haute couture.

Also in the trunk was a yellowed muslin evening gown, adorned with the same type of embroidery. Wearing a white gown denoted upper class status as white was difficult to keep clean and fresh. At first, Jane thought that the clothing, because of its small size, was for a child. Then, she realized that she herself could probably fit into the items. Jane looked at the seam of the muslin dress. In small white stitches she read, "Jane Reed Gateshead ---shire". Jane held the clothing to her face and wept. These items belonged to her long dead and disgraced mother.

A few minutes later, Jane wiped her eyes and searched the trunk. Nothing else remained. She supposed that her aunt Reed had destroyed anything that belonged to Miss Jane Reed and sold off all jewelry of value. How did these two frocks avoid the fury of Mrs. Reed? Jane realized that the servants of Gateshead perhaps took pity on the disgraced daughter and hid these two pieces of clothing. She would never know.

She held the muslin dress to her own small form, and did a slow dance around the darkening room. In her fancy, she remembered the look and closeness of someone taller, dark and sardonic and wondered if he would dance with her..."Shush foolish girl, this is play-acting. The old house is making your nerves fragile. Remembered slights is playing havoc with your common sense and creating fancies." Jane stopped moving, put the decayed clothing in the old trunk and went to the front stairway. "Bessie" she called to the entry hall. "I have another trunk that perhaps could bring in some ready cash. The clothing inside is not usable, I am afraid. It needs to be burnt."

The bell rang for tea. Jane took one last look at the trunk, and left the room.


	3. Chapter 2

Richard Eyre

Toward the middle of the afternoon, Jane put a clean tucker and apron over her dress and climbed the narrow staircase to the top of the house. It was fortunate that Bessie was preoccupied with her children in the Porter House by the gates. Eliza Reed was also unusually absent, having been invited to tea to the last of the neighbors who wished to keep contact with the Reed family. The family surely had known Miss Jane Reed and were aware of the presence of the the said woman's daughter. But, Jane declined to attend the afternoon, still feeling that she was only on the periphery of the social circles that the Reed family had maintained.

The house was empty. She was happy for this opportunity to look around the old Reed mansion without any witnesses. Jane, even though she was a self-reliant and fearless independent woman, yet felt that any intrusion on her part over the Gateshead property would result in punishment. "Silly Jane" she said to herself. "Aunt Reed is dead. You, Jane have a livelihood, and now the possibility of an inheritance."

The attic of Gateshead House was bare. All clothing had been sorted, all useful items distributed. The papers were sorted through. Those that pertained to the closing of Gateshead and the settlement of the Reed estate were culled, read and filed with the lawyers.

Jane stepped gingerly over the leavings of bats and other creatures that had been calling the attic their home, too. She both felt and heard the wind as it whistled through the many gaps in the roof and the broken panes of the small round attic windows. The pathetic remains of a bird's nest clung to the edges of the jagged glass.

A goodly amount of the furniture and clothing stored in the attic was ruined by rain or vermin. Much of the old correspondence, carefully bundled in yellowing pink or blue ribbons, was either made unreadable by mold and running ink or by becoming the nests and food of mice. Jane even saw a faded blue ribbon fluttering among the yellow grasses in the abandoned bird nest. Besides, Eliza was most adamant that **all correspondence that appeared to be private letters** be burned without reading. It was as if she were scouring out any memory of the Reeds of Gateshead---sending the written history to some eternal damnation and Hellfire.

Jane certainly understood Eliza's sentiments to honor the dead. Surely Mrs. Reed would not want any posthumous reading of her courtship with John Reed Sr. or any written record of Jack Reed's pleading for money. Jane banished a smile of spiteful mirth at the thought of that humorless and no-nonsense woman writing flowery lovelorn prose to Uncle Reed. Or, even more ludicrous, of Uncle Reed writing in longing for the dark visage, cold eyes of Mrs. Reed when she was the Miss Sarah Gibson.

"Don't forget, young lady" said Jane's stern inner monitor "That YOUR sleepless nights have been tormented by a sardonic wit and a dark stern face---a face that many would consider laughable as a one longed for..." But Jane resolutely shut away the thought of Mr. Rochester as something she dare not touch...

Jane also felt a pang of regret at the thought of the burned correspondence. She never knew her mother or her uncle Reed. In some of the destroyed correspondence there could have been a glimpse of these people. Jane never even had an adequate description of what her mother and father even looked like. A formal miniature portrait of her mother, painted by a French master, was removed from the library when Miss Jane Reed ran off with the curate Richard Eyre. Bessie told Jane that Mrs. Reed had wanted to have the portrait destroyed. Mr. Reed wept like a child and pleaded with his wife to at least have the picture hidden away. Mrs. Reed demurred, after all some expense had been made to the artist for the sitting.

When the child Jane timidly would inquire about her parents, Mrs. Reed would either slap her face ("I do not care for children who are inquisitive") or, if in a more communicative mood, would say derisively, "Your mother was puny, no figure what so ever. Some think that pale features are beautiful but I always found her to be very ordinary." Mrs. Reed would then glance down at her too-ample figure with some satisfaction. Bessie secretly told Jane that her mother reminded her of a pale moth or butterfly. "Very fair, she was. Small nose, mouth and great eyes. Tiny and like a little fairy. You did not't turn out to be the beauty she was, more's the pity." Jane always supposed that her brown hair, large mouth and irregular features were from the curate, Richard Eyre. When she inquired about HIM, Bessie would only say, "He was poor but was given a stipend to attend Cambridge. I suppose he was clever. You are clever, too but it won't do a poor orphan girl any good to be clever without money or looks."

Jane sighed. All of the banishments, the destroying of any and all memory of Miss Jane Reed, the elopement of her parents, their early death, the false pride of the Reed family and even young John Reed's cruelty came to this—an empty attic full of bats and mice. Bessie's husband even hinted that the house would have to be pulled down and the stone sold for other building. The neglect and the prospect of being abandoned had made Gateshead a liability and too expensive to restore.

Jane looked at the light coming through the filthy broken window and realized that it would soon be dark. It was time to return to the downstairs and make the orders for supper. Eliza had also delegated that task to Jane. It certainly would not do to be in the insalubrious attic after dark. Jane did not fear the creatures that lived in the walls and the eaves, but she did not relish the thought of fending off the bats that would be awakening soon. Also, if Gateshead had a ghost, it would be haunting the attic. Jane did not't really believe in supernatural events, but her childhood drama in the Red Room and instincts lead her to consider the possibility of second sight. Either way, Jane listened to that inner voice when it said "Beware" and took seriously all feelings of foreboding. There was a local rumor that the Reeds were descended from the numerous and often mad Neville family that ruled the north of England in Medieval times. The local people spoke of a Neville woman from six hundred years past who murdered her children in a fit of madness. Many a lost traveler on the Lancaster Road on a stormy night swore that they had seen this shade looking for her children and mistook the keening wind for her moaning.

Ending her morbid reflections on the nature of change and the end of the Reed family, Jane turned to the door leading to the narrow stairway. As she looked to unlatch the door, Jane caught her skirts on some molding that was twisted awry. Fearing another frightened rodent issuing forth, not to mention future accidents from tripping over such an obstacle, Jane mentally noted that she would have to ask Bessie's husband to visit the attic with a hammer and nails. Maybe some poison for vermin, too.

Jane was pushing the heavy oak board in, when she noticed a faded blue ribbon protruding from the gap in the wall, under the molding. In the fading light, she reached into the gap, and pulled out a yellowed and somewhat mice chewed packet of letters. They were addressed to no one in particular.

The writing was faded from sepia to a tan. However, their place in the wall preserved them from rain damage. The paper was yellow. The writer had used very tiny handwriting and both sides of the paper. But, the frugal writer had written every paragraph inside of a drawing of a heart. And Jane also saw, with a pang, that the writer penned long streams of "oooxxxxooooxxx" not lines to make the heart shapes "Would that I could deliver these in person, my dear sweet fairy. I long to see your face and hear your voice."The letters were signed "Your very own forever and forever, R." The slanted writing was clearly masculine, as was the choice of writing paper. Jane squinted at the tiny words. "Good God" she thought "The messages are written in GREEK and LATIN". Jane made out one sentence in English---"...this device will foil the sharp but conveniently myopic and most unlearned gaze of our Agrippina Sarah."

Jane realized, with a shock of joy, that the "R" could very well be Richard Eyre her father. Did he teach her mother ancient Greek? And, her very own mother may have hidden these letters in the attic! Only years of neglect and rain had warped the wood, causing it to burst from its spot. This must have been recent for the ever watchful eye of Mrs. Reed would have snatched these treasures up if they had become visible before.

Jane hid the crumbling missives in her apron pocket. She hoped that the magnifying glass in the library had not been sold. Or, when she returned to Thornfield, she could perhaps sneak into that library to read the tiny handwriting. Mr. Rochester, eccentric that he was, would probably enjoy the deciphering of the letters. He intimated to her once that he studied Greek at Oxford. Being the second son, he was encouraged to take on classics as the clergy was one of the few possibilities open to him. In one of those precious moments when they were equals, not employer and employee, they were overcome with mirth at the thought of Mr. Rochester presiding over baptisms and making flowery homilies or Hellfire sermons...

The steel trap of Jane's mind came down----must NOT think of Mr. Rochester--he is lost and forbidden territory.

For now, Jane had something new to ponder. Her parents carried on a furtive forbidden courtship under the very nose of Sarah Reed---how Mr. Rochester would laugh, as he was even more contemptuous than Jane of those false society doyennes...do not think on Mr. Rochester...Mrs. Fairfax had written that the house guests were gone and that Mr. Rochester had taken himself to London, "to make preparations for the wedding, no doubt. He even mentioned that he was going to purchase a new carriage to carry off his bride for the honeymoon."

Jane carefully put the crumbling letters in her pocket and descended the stairs. Although her parents had been dead for at least sixteen years, she somehow did not feel like a poor orphan child any longer. Tomorrow, she would be returning to Thornfield, and to Mr. Rochester. The Greek translation would occupy them on their few remaining evenings together.


	4. Chapter 4

**London, two weeks later**

Edward Rochester paused outside bookseller's store. This was his last errand in London, save one.

His house guests were gone from Thornfield. Jane had not returned from her journey. It was impossible to remain at Thornfield without her. Action on Edward's part was required at any rate. The plan, when she returned, was to end this farce of courting Blanche Ingram, propose to Jane and be gone from Thornfield forever. He and Jane would be married and long out of England before the end of summer. A new life was beginning—Edward felt a fresh breeze, no, a gale force of change coming to his life. So, it was off to London to make necessary arrangements.

After the wedding, they would only stay in London for a few days before embarking for the continent---he did not want to risk having "Mrs. Rochester" under any scrutiny from society. Now that he knew about Jane's mother, he became more concerned about shielding her from any small talk, snubs or becoming the topic in the drawing rooms.

Oh, the devil with it---let the biddies gossip! His Jane was ten thousand times better, nobler and purer than all of society put together. Edward was paving Hell (in his own words) to provide Jane with a life she deserved and was making certain that she would never want again. There was another reason that he wanted Jane disassociated with England, too. Edward banished the dark thought of Bertha Mason to a dark cellar in his mind and mentally slammed the door.

He had just completed the purchase and fitting out of a new carriage for his bride, his lovely Jane. It was to be completed and delivered within the month—and used to carry them to London from Thornfield.

Edward spared no expense. The carriage interior was comfortable without being too plush, tasteful without being garish. The finest and softest leather from Morocco was used. Quality, taste and decorum—so complementary and descriptive of his Jane. It would also befit the genteel daughter of a good family. By birth and by right, Jane should have had a life of comfortable carriages and journeys to London. Well, Edward was going to make it up to her. The new carriage was only the beginning.

The Rochester family banker was also paid a visit. The tiara, the brooches, the necklaces that had been in the vault since Edward's grandmother was presented were to be cleaned and modernized. There were some loose emeralds that his grandfather brought back from India---perhaps he could have them sent to the jewelers. A ring, a brooch, a necklace---simple and elegant in design---Edward was already imagining putting the necklace on Jane and seeing her blush of surprise and pleasure—the color would bring out her eyes...

Edward recalled that he was in a bookstore. He glanced at the published music behind the glass case where all the finest salon music printed in Leipzig was on display. Prominent was a piano piece called "The Troubadour, A Nocturne" by the Anglo/Irish composer John Field. His music was all the rage in the drawing rooms, but few could really play it well.

Edward decided to purchase it as a present for Jane. It was also an apology for his derisive comments about her pianoforte skills. He noticed that she would abruptly stop playing if she sensed his presence near the library. How could he expect a girl educated at a charity school to have had much training? Edward remembered the private tutoring he had on the piano from trained virtuosos and the expensive Boxwood piano that he always had at his disposal. Well, after the wedding, Jane would be encouraged to study with a music master and maybe take painting lessons, too. He would employ the finest French drawing master as soon as they reached Paris. Such a talented creature, and she developed her gifts in the midst of poverty and deprivation.

He was certain that the obnoxious Reed children had had a plethora of private tutors and music masters whose teaching was wasted on their inferior minds and persons. Jane, in their stead, would have been a conscientious student--- respectful of her teachers and a credit to the Reed family. Again, Edward felt anger rise against the Reed family for sending Jane to Lowood to starve or have a bleak life of servitude for a future. Edward was equally contemptuous that the Reeds left Jane's mother to die a penniless outcast. The elder John Reed must have had no backbone. Did Edward not take on Adele, even though she was very likely not his child? And, the ghoul in the attic only had the best of care, as much as he hated her. Edward had sinned greatly, but never could he become a passive murderer.

"Is the gentleman interested in viewing the publication?" The store keeper interrupted Edward's musings. "Yes, I believe that I would like it. I heard Mr. Field perform some years ago." "Ah yes, a great talent and one of our own, too. However, I hear that a young Polish virtuoso, a Monsieur Frederic Chopin is now all the rage in the Paris salons. His printed music is very hard to obtain in London, but I would be happy to find it for the gentleman. M. Chopin plays in a way, I hear, that is very unworldly. A true genius." Edward thanked the man and left with his purchase.

Soon, Edward thought, he and Jane could be sitting in a Parisian salon listening to M. Chopin. How his angel would adore those evenings. She would not become bored, restless, or only interested in what was being worn by the ladies. They would be able to purchase anything published by the virtuoso that they fancied, play it in the evenings, discuss its merits, agree or disagree, retire early...Edward pushed dark thoughts and recollections from his mind.

THIS time, Paris would be a city of life and light. He would have his angel as they visited music salons, Notre Dame, the Bois de Bologne and cafes. The Rochester fortune would dress his darling in silk, lace and satins. He was restoring Jane to what should have been hers from the Reed family. It would atone for the little matter of what was hidden in the Thornfield second storey...

Edward hailed a cab. He had one more errand before quitting London. He would return within two months, his Jane on his arm. They would visit the art galleries, look at Westminster and walk the parks. Edward mentally noted that perhaps only the smaller parks, not St. James or Rotten Row, as it would not do to be seen. No, he was not ashamed of Jane, but there was always the slight possibility of that other matter being unearthed.

If Jane would question why they did not't linger in London, he would explain the logic of staying away from prying eyes and gossip. Edward smiled to himself. At any rate, they would not wish to spend much time away from our hotel suite.

If Jane would miss some of the culture of London, well he would surfeit the villa in Marseilles with libraries of books. Better yet, they would visit all the capitals of art and culture---Florence, Berlin, Vienna, Budapest and even Egypt to cruise the Nile, if Jane wished for it. In their last conversation Edward threatened to have Jane "Walk the pyramids of Egypt" if she advertised for another governess placement, did he not? This would be their little private joke when they landed in Cairo.

Perhaps they should wait until Jane gained some health and flesh before they betook themselves to Egypt's climate. Jane had looked uncommonly pale when Edward last saw her. This was more proof that someone needed to look after her health and well being--who else truly cared for her well being but Edward Rochester? Why, little Jane would have died young from a life of drudgery and servitude if Edward had not rescued her, loved her and restored her to what she deserved. Her very life was saved! It would atone for--bigamy-- A few months in the sun of Marseilles, good food, rest would bring roses and dimples to her face. Edward smiled again. He would see to it that she rested well and often--- and left their bedchamber as little as possible...

"Is this the address the gentleman wanted?" The driver interrupted Edward's reverie of future marital bliss. The cab stopped in front of a small brick townhouse. As it was not far from where Edward was lodged, he sent the cab on its way. This errand must be kept very secret.

An elderly butler answered the door. He showed Rochester to a tidy study. "Lord Methume will be with you directly" said the butler, and then left Edward.

Edward looked about the room. One could see that this was the room belonging to a man who had a career in the service of Her Majesty's Navy. The chairs were red leather, turkey carpets were on the dark floors. On the mantle was the usual ship assembled inside a bottle. The walls were decorated with prints of HMS ships through the centuries, including a fanciful rendering of Henry VIII's flagship "The Mary Rose". There were no pictures of any family, sweethearts, country scenes or of the family seat in Lancashire. All décor was very masculine and spare. One ivory elephant sat on the desk, and that was the only hint of time spent abroad in India or Ceylon.

A middle aged man, some ten years older than Rochester, entered the room. Even though he was dressed in evening wear, his posture and stride betrayed time spent in the military. They shook hands.

"I am the gentleman who placed the ad in 'The Times'", began Rochester. "What-what-oh yes, looking for any miniatures done by that fellow-what-what—that French fellow who left France with his head still on his shoulders—what—what--Desquains, I believe, what?" Oh dear, thought Edward to himself, the fellow affects the speech of the late George III and the other Hanover princes. He hoped that retired Admiral Lord Methume did not't also have the late king's madness and abstract mind, too.

"Yes, I am the one who is collecting all work of the late painter, Desquains. I hope to set up a gallery consisting mainly of the works of ex-patriots of the French Revolution." Edward planned to do no such thing, but he had to have a plausible story as to why he wanted a miniature portrait painted by such an obscure artist.

"Well, I hate to part with this—what-what-the lady in question being a former-what-what-possible Lady Methume—what--" Lord Methume gave Rochester a knowing look. But, there was sadness, too.

"May I see the portrait?" asked Edward, trying to quell his impatience.

"The portrait-what what? Oh, yes, that is why you are here, what?" Lord Methume took a small key from his pocket. He looked around the room, furtively looked out into the hallway and shut the door to the study. He then proceeded to a small cabinet by the fireplace and unlocked a hidden cupboard door. From the back recesses, Lord Methume produced a smallish packet wrapped in brown paper and handed it Edward.

"The only portrait of Miss Jane Reed of Gateshead Hall". Said Lord Methume. Edward handed Lord Methume a purse containing thirty pounds, and thanked him for answering his advertisement so promptly.

As they shook hands, Lord Methume said quietly, "May I have just one last look, what-what?" Edward unwrapped the packet. It was miniature portrait of a Regency girl. The style was conventional, even a little amateurish. Miss Jane Reed was dressed in a sky blue gown in the old Empire style, so popular over twenty years in the past. The cut was modest, and there was a band of white satin tied under her bosom. The golden hair was caught in a ribbon band and allowed to curl naturally—so very different from the heavy ringlets and the affected styles of current fashion. Edward saw little of Jane in the the regular pretty features; the small dainty nose, the rosebud mouth, the rounded chin and heart shaped face. Yes, Miss Jane Reed was a beauty. The tales of her turning heads where ever she went were probably true. Edward looked again, and gasped. The eyes—those were Jane's eyes--large, green, luminous and they looked directly at Edward. The artist may have been a minor talent but he captured the intelligence and spirit of Miss Jane Reed in the expression. Edward covered the lower half of the face and concentrated on the eyes. It as if he was looking at his Jane.

Lord Methume coughed and said, "It is a good likeness, what? He got her look, for certain—what-what?" Edward looked at Lord Methume. The Navy man continued. "It was for the best, maybe, what? She would not have been the type to sit in the drawing room, embroidering or having tea during the months of waiting for her old husband to return from an assignment for His Majesty George IV, what-what" Lord Methume tried to be off hand, but Edward swore that he saw the him brush away a tear. Then, in a voice that was soft and choked with emotion, Lord Methume said, "Damn shame the way she died--what? Typhus? Damn family did nothing for her. I heard there was a child. It probably died, too."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Edward broke it. "I hear that congratulations are in order, Lord Admiral Methume. You are to be married soon."

Lord Methume coughed. "You know how it is---an old name, must have a son to continue the family, what-what. Miss Georgiana is a strapping girl, should have strong sons, eh? She is a beauty, but it is well that picture is out of the house. Georgiana is without rival, but she would not take well to being shown up by her own auntie, women being the jealous creatures they are, what-what, eh?" Lord Methume slapped Rochester on the back and winked conspiratorially. But, Edward sensed that the sadness still lurked in the back of Lord Methume's eyes.

"Miss Georgiana Reed?" said Edward, with some surprise in his voice.

"Yes, I hope that a worn out old man like me will not be a come down for her. The Reeds are an old proud family and all-what-what-descended from the mad Nevilles I hear--- have come to difficult times, that rake of a brother going through the money gambling and worse. Gateshead Hall was mortgaged, although as a wedding present I did buy it back from the bankers."

"Nonsense!" said Edward, garnering as much heartiness as he could. "You are quite young at heart. Now, the next news I will hear about Lord Admiral Methume is that he has a son to carry on the name."

Edward looked at his watch and made an excuse to leave. Lord Methume himself handed Edward his hat, walking stick and guided him to the door. They exchanged pleasantries, and Edward exited the house.

Edward walked to his hotel and thought about his visit. A fine gentleman who could have been Jane's father—ridiculous. Jane would not have been Jane if she had grown up with a Lord Admiral as a father. Edward tried to imagine the bluestocking Jane Reed spending her evenings with bluff old Lord Methume, and laughed. But, clearly the man still treasured her memory if he kept the miniature locked away. And, twenty years ago the young Lord Methume, in his HMS uniform, may have cut a dashing figure in the London Salons.

The following day, Edward dispatched letters-- to open up the house in Marseilles, to find where M. Frederic Chopin was to have his salons in the autumn, and to inquire about luxury accommodations in Cairo Egypt. He could use his old name and money to charter a luxury yacht for the Nile.

Before departing for Thornfield, Edward returned to his London banker to deposit a smallish brown package containing a miniature of a long lost Regency beauty. How Jane would love him even more for finding and preserving a picture of her mother!


	5. Chapter 3

Note: " Lady's Day" was the 1st of the year in the old Julian calendar. In rural areas (see Thomas Hardy's "Tess of the D'Ubervilles") many still used the old calendar days. So, what was formerly "lady day"was in the spring.

It was the custom in the 18th century and the early 19th century for the woman to make a betrothal ring out of her own hair and present it to her future husband.

"Τόσο όχι φόβος, η μικρή νεράιδά μου. Όλος είναι καλά. Με συναντήστε στο δρόμο του Λάνκαστερ από το δέντρο μας στο βράδυ της ημέρας της γηραιής κυρίας. Θα πετάξουμε σε Thistleton στον παλαιό φίλο μου που θα μας παντρεψει. Έχω το αγαπητό δαχτυλίδι που κάνατε από τη χλωμή τρίχα σας στο δάχτυλό μου. Το δαχτυλίδι μου για τον εφημέριο είναι μόνο ορείχαλκος αλλά η καρδιά μου για σας είναι χρυσή. Το babe μας θα έχει την αγάπη μας για να την ταϊ'σει και να κρατήσει θερμή. Θα ζήσουμε στο Μπέρμιγχαμ, κάνουμε την εργασία του Θεού και αγαπάμε το ένα άλλη. Φιλώ αυτήν την επιστολή και την σας στέλνω σε. Το R σας"

Under the magnifying glass, the faded sepia ink came to life. Edward read aloud, relishing the rolling consonants and vowels of Greek, hoping to impress Jane with his erudite and scholarly accomplishments. Edward did have an almost school boyish appeal in his earnest efforts and always delighted to have any opportunity to show off.

Jane listened to the words but was lost in wonder. Her parents were coming to life by means of he who she loved best...Jane again strangled the feeling and concentrated on the text of the old letters.

"Sir, I know well that your voice is sonorous and that your parsing of Greek is impeccable. But, a translation, please."

"So not fear, my little fairy. All is well. Meet me on the Lancaster Road by our tree on the evening of Old Lady's Day. We will fly to Thistleton to my old friend who will marry us. I have the dear ring you made from your pale hair on my finger. My ring for the parson is only brass but my heart for you is gold. Our babe will have our love to feed and keep it warm. We will live in Birmingham, do God's work and love one another. I kiss this letter and send it to you. Your own R"

Edward faltered, and recovered. It would not do to let Jane see his emotion at reading about another time and someone who also called his love "A little fairy".

"Shall I read the other paper, My---Miss Eyre?" Asked Edward. "Really, I find it quite extraordinary how they pretended to be correcting Greek essays when they were writing love letters."

"Do go on, sir. I do like the sound of the ancient language."

"Αισθάνομαι άρρωστος κάθε πρωί. Φοβάμαι ότι το παιδί θα παρουσιάσει. Το Sarah με προσέχει. Ξέρει πάρα πολύ σύντομα. Δορές John στη βιβλιοθήκη. Τα παιδιά είναι λυπηρά. Νέος John κλωτσά τα αντικνήμιά μου και κολλά έξω τη γλώσσα του. Το μωρό Eliza είναι άσχημο και καλυμμένο με το λίκνο ΚΑΠ. Πρέπει να πετάξω Η J σας"

Edward hesitated. Jane looked at him. "Translation, sir?" Edward coughed, and plunged forward with the English.

"I feel ill every morning. I fear that the child will show. Sarah is watching me. She will know too much soon. John hides in the library. The children are deplorable. Young John kicks my shins and sticks out his tongue. Baby Eliza is ugly and covered with cradle cap. I must fly. Your own J"

"My goodness, what a furtive correspondence was kept up. " Edward finally spoke to break the embarrassed silence. Jane was quiet. Firstly, to be reading such heated love phrases in Edward's presence was not considered a proper activity for an employee and dependent—especially an unmarried young woman to do in a gentleman's company.

Secondly, Jane was putting HER best efforts into keeping up her guard. She must not let Mr. Rochester know her feelings. Her despair. Yet, one tear did form, and drop from her chin. Jane rallied and said with a quavering smile "Please forgive me, sir. I had previously thought of myself as some sort of an anomaly—as if I merely dropped from the sky or was found in behind the shed in the Gateshead garden. I do not remember my parents. Now, they have suddenly taken on flesh and blood."

Jane took a deep breath and continued. "What a foolish pair they were, sir. Forgive my outburst..." Jane stood and twisted her hands and her handkerchief, distraught at how her composure was fast evaporating.

Edward wondered if this was the moment for him to tell of his love...Jane was losing her guard very quickly. But, he knew that her pride was easily pricked, too. And, he still was not sure of her heart.

Jane timidly looked at him, her expression was imploring him to give some indication or way to absolve her of the social faux pas. How Mr. Rochester must think she is nothing but a silly girl who cries at the least sentimentality.

He patted her head as they leaned over the translation. The gesture was paternal. "Nonsense Jane. What are friends for if they cannot share a confidence? This must be a shock to the nerves of one who is so intelligent and fine tuned as you are."

"Ja-I mean, Miss Eyre, I have traveled the world. I have seen the blackest depths of men's, (and women's!) souls. Nothing can surprise or unnerve me, except the continued cruelty that humankind shows to those closet to their own hearths---the very people who should have the first helping and succor"

Edward shook his head again. The Reed family had hearts of stone. All were now at their Maker's Tribunal and he hoped that John and Sarah Reed were receiving divine judgment for their heartless treatment of Richard Eyre and Miss Jane Reed. No, that was not right--HIS Jane would admonish that they be forgiven and led to light and renewal.

Edward continued "I grew up with the knowledge of my parents and a brother. The walls of Thornfield are lined with portraits of my illustrious and not-so salubrious ancestors. My home is filled with the flotsam of their travels and generations of Rochester women have left knick-knacks through the centuries for Leah and Mrs. Fairfax to dust. I take family for granted."

Jane glanced up at the dear face, and quickly looked away. Edward paused. He detected a glimmer of passion? Maybe she did carry the blood of the doomed lovers who wrote in Greek and sacrificed comfort, family and reputations to be together. Jane, would YOU also defy convention to be my second soul...

Edward coughed. "You, on the other hand, have a few faded letters and the whispered confidences of old servants, when they dared to speak to you. If I am your friend, I will never pass judgment but can only rejoice that these treasures were restored to you in your hitherto solitary life." Edward looked at Jane gently and smiled into her eyes. "I can read that you were very loved, even if for a short time."

Jane could not bear the kindness that glowed from the depths of the black eyes. She read that the warm smile was just for her, yet he was going to marry Miss Ingram. Why, just on the previous day, the stable hands had brought the new carriage clattering over the front drive way for inspection. This was the conveyance that was to take "Mr. Rochester and his bride" to London for the honeymoon, according to Mrs. Fairfax.

The library clock ticked, the birds outside were caroling. Sunset merged into night. The air between them was electric. Edward broke the spell. "I will send for candles. We must continue the translations. I find it compelling to practice my Greek. The brain has become like a rusty pocket watch---I am on fire to set it going again." He was speaking quickly, imperatively, to dispel his own discomfort.

"Ja---Miss Eyre" Said Edward in his booming voice. "Have you ever considered the study of the ancient Greek? You have an affinity for learning languages with your quick ear and brain. I imagine that further study of the New Testament in its original language would delight you. Not to mention Homer, Herodatus, Ptolomy...Did you know that the ancient Hellenistic people of Egypt knew that the earth was round and even calculated its very radius centuries before the birth of Christ...Have I told you of my travels to Egypt and the site of the Great Library of Alexandria?"

Another evening was passed. After the letters were translated, the discussions went to Mr. Rochester's sojourns in North Africa. Another evening of heartache for Jane as she realized that these magical times were to end with his marriage. Would he and Miss Ingram wile away the hours, unfolding maps, pondering how the world would be different if Cleopatra and Mark Antony had bested Octavius or sitting silently, listening to the nightingales and crickets of a summer evening?

Too soon the clock in the hall way struck midnight. Jane rose to her feet. "I fear that little Adele will have a yawning teacher if I do not retire, sir." Edward rose to his feet. "Good night my—Miss Eyre. I hope that the evening was not too wearing on your sensibilities. May I repeat, there is no judgment, false moralizing or condemnation on my part and that I will, as your friend, keep these revelations in complete confidence?" Jane smiled and said, "Thank you for your comfort and friendship. I have, indeed, found and lost family in one evening. However, I will always have you..." she felt her face flame and quickly fled the room.

Edward remained in the library. He stared at the fire. "'My bright and lovely fairy' was what your father called your mother. How did the silly fools think that they were going to maintain a life with no money, a child on the way and a mother used to gentle living?" Yet, Edward knew that only a pair as ephemeral Richard Eyre and his beloved Jane Reed could produce a creature like his own Jane.

"The promise will be kept." Said Edward to himself. He even looked heavenward, as if the long dead young parents of Jane Eyre were looking down on him. "Forgive me, please. I only love her more than my own life. I will make amends for the harsh fate you had and the wrongs done to her. Never again will your little Jane want for food, warmth, and most of all, love. It will atone!"

Edward paused at a long over looked bookshelf. It contained his old Greek and Latin lexicons and dictionaries. He pulled them out, blew the dust off their spines and left them in a conspicuous place, near the new Field Nocturne that was purchased in London. Tomorrow was Midsummer's Eve, a time of magic. Perhaps he would be able to claim his own magical fairy at sunset, at the very witching hour.


	6. Chapter 6

Minorca 1856

Tonight, she looked at the world with her artist's eye----the eyes for which the outlines of conformity became blurred. She passed into the world of color and shade.

The sunset was violet red, a contrast to the bright and almost painful hot blue of the daytime sky. The water off the beach sometimes had that same bright blue, too---blended with a greenish cast that looked like the green of old copper on buildings. It called to mind the tiles the ancient Greeks and Romans baked for the villas built on the island so long ago. Tonight, as evening approached, the sea turned to a velvet midnight blue, meeting the remains of the sunset.

In the distance, the artist could hear the faint speech and laughter of others as they walked the path above her hidden cove. She supposed, since the speech was English, that they were other expatriates on holiday. She shut away their speech---she supposed it was all the same theme anyhow. She caught snippets of "I cannot walk here" "Where is my bonnet" "Good gracious, how the native people do not wash" and shut that world away. Their speech became fainter as they returned to the inhabited part of the island. England, its constraints, its xenophobic prejudices were washed away in a dark warm Mediterranean sea.

They used to winter in a white villa in Marseilles. **He** owned it for many years as a place to hide his mistresses. Somehow, she did not feel comfortable there. Yes, she knew that she was his salvation and that his past was a closed chapter, but sometimes the ghost of shallow hyena-like laughter and past dissipations seethed through the walls of the Marseilles house. And, the city was too close. She argued that Marseilles was becoming too expensive, that the influence was too French and dissolute. A growing family needed to be in a place that was simple and pure. She needed to be in a place that was hers.

Minorca beckoned. Even though England had returned it to Spain, it yet had a British aura. The houses had sash windows, the men could drink a locally made gin. The wine was dark, dry and very Spanish. Minorca was remote, quiet, warm and had just enough minor luxuries to keep someone who was used to living as an upper class British male supplied with good wine, newspapers, simple but elegant cuisine, easy rambles among the ruins of the Greeks, Phoenicians and people even more ancient. The ancient Celts had also visited Minorca. She had made many sketches and paintings of those Minorcan ruins that looked so much like her English Stonehenge—a Stonehenge that was set against that blue sky and dun soil.

Minorca set her free. As fast as her hands could move, as fast as the brush could fly she began to paint the sights and colors. In her fevered artist's brain, she saw the ancient ships, the old gods and goddesses and transported them into her wild colors and lines.

The waves rolled in as the stars appeared in the night sky. It was too late to blend the strange tints of the Minorca sunset. She put away her paints and brushes in their box. Could she remember the hues? "Ah, if I could only paint the **sounds** of the sea" she murmured as she rolled up the canvas and folded the easel.

Each day she came to the beach to sketch to and work at her canvas----feverishly mixing new colors, new paints from Paris or Vienna. The task was to capture the colors and sights from the **inside**. It always eluded her. It began as a vision in her artist brain. It took form, as if she were on a ship that was coming closer to port on a fast wind.Then, it would vanish like a dream. It was as if some angel was laughing at her as her inspiration never matched the results on the canvas. She always returned to the painting, even more frantic to collect her frayed visions. Sometimes she frightened her children with her intensity.

Yet, her line sketches of the neolithic ruins, of the wildflowers and dry grasses growing wild about the base of the formations were published in every magazine in England. And, the paintings of the beaches and water and sky were at this moment on display in a gallery in Paris. Of course, she did not use her real name. Her alias was the androgynous turn of her former name; in Paris, all the art world, tout le monde was praising the paintings of the mysterious Jaimet Airey.

The small spare Englishwoman, the woman in the plain blue dress, the tanned and freckled face was, to the world, simply another genteel Englishwoman in her thirties. Not a beauty and someone who did not wear her bonnet. She was someone who supervised two school aged children, tied the bonnet of a six year old girl and fussed over a sickly toddler. She gave orders to the cook and was seen walking on the arm of a half blind English gentleman, her husband. He wore a white suit, always had a cigar and spoke in a booming baritone voice. She demurred to him and he, in turn, doted on her. The disguise was complete---none would connect Mrs. Jane Rochester with the wild sea, the feverish imaginings, the lurid tints, the bold colors of the Minorcan collection in the Paris gallery.


	7. Chapter 7

Epilogue--Minorca

Jane watched the burning driftwood. She enjoyed a bonfire on the beach. Sometimes she even brought a kettle of water, a teacup, a packet of tea and sugar and made her tea over the open fire. She often came home smudged with soot.

She sat on the sand and sighed. Yes, life was pleasant and comfortable. His old money and her inheritance gave the Rochester family an enviable life. Summers in England, winters at the Minorca house, many trips to the capitals of Europe. The children were healthy, beautiful even. Although last winter they did have some warning letters from boarding school about young James, it was probably just hijinks. The boy would go to Oxford and settle into the organization of the estate. Richard was a far better scholar. Edward swore that Richard would not be "the second son" or "the spare". He could chose his profession and would have an estate, too. The boy had a yearning for the military life. The doctor said little Edward's lungs were not strong, but surely a summer in the sun and clean air would set him to rights again.

It was dark now. The wind blew at the embers of the bonfire. If Edward decided to walk to the cove and look for her, it was just as well. Edward always always understood why she made the bonfires.

The wind blew again, and stirred the unease in her soul. What was it? Worry about little Edward? Frustration with the latest painting? Looking in the mirror and seeing a streak of gray, a few lines? Jane always took pride in her lack of vanity. In a way, it was a form of vanity. But, her husband was blind for the first two years of their marriage. She did not have to brood on her plain features, her stunted build, her lack of a statuesque build. Edward was completely dependent upon her. With the endearments of "elf" "witch" "thing" or even "vixen" he thought that her face was the most beautiful in world. He had been faithful for all the many years they were together.

Was Jane also thinking of their shared grief---the two infants in the Thornfield churchyard--the fury of painting that followed to strangle memories of priest's words of condolence, the thud of earth on the small white caskets, the wind whistling through bare trees and whipping the black clothing, the old biddies saying "there, there, you will have other babies..." the fleeing from England...the cold, cold north of England...

She heard the footfalls that were so familiar. The slight hesitation, the beating of the ground with a walking stick, the confident swaggering footfalls that followed. Edward. His returned eyesight and continuing good health returned his daring manner and independence. But, he always wanted to have Jane close at hand. It was a great effort for him to find his way to the little beach in the dark, hampered as he was with one eye and one hand.

"The wind has risen, you must be chilled."Edward sat beside her and wrapped a shawl around both of them. "Are you sitting on the cold ground again, my little heathen? Waiting for your people to come from the sea. I must warn you, they prefer the islands off Ireland. The Kelpies don't care for the warm Mediterranean."

Jane pretended to bristle, as she often did when he teased her or was paternal toward her. "Yes, and I am not wearing a bonnet, either." She rejoined tartly.

Edward chuckled, kissed her and held her close. "I rather like the freckles, you remind me of a Guinea fowl—especially when you fuss at James."

Jane gave him a little push and said "Really Edward" but her voice was smothering a laugh.

Edward feinted the blow, held her even closer and said"I suppose that I should be more respectful to the celebrated artiste. I should put you on some sort of a pedestal" Then, holding her chin, he added. "You reek of turpentine, my dear. In my first romantic enthusiasms always wanted to whisk you to the perfumeries of Paris. But, somehow linseed and turpentine are the more fitting cologne for my Jane."

Finally, Jane could not hold out any longer. She laughed, he laughed and they held each other. Away from the mundane household tasks, away from her own thoughts, Edward's presence always brought her restless soul back to its center. His teasing, bantering and even his barking was her true home. The previous ill at ease she was feeling evaporated. Through everything, through the blindness, the deaths of little Jane and little John, Edward Rochester remained her soul and second second self.

After several minutes, Edward spoke."Well Jane, I have something for you. I purchased it as a surprise before I proposed the first time. I will give you a hint, it comes from the London vault."

Jane looked at Edward. He had, over the last sixteen years showered her with presents. Edward learned that Jane did not want jewelry, cashmeres and silks. So every Christmas and birthday was celebrated with gifts of canvas, paints, camel hair brushes and books to cram into their libraries. Something from the London vault could only be, oh dear, the family jewelry. Jane started to sigh, "Edward, for over fifteen years I have told you what I thought about the jewels. You are incorrigible..."

Edward thrust into Jane's hand a small square rectangle wrapped in brown paper. She opened it and turned in over. On the back, by the light of the dying bonfire, she read "Miss Jane Reed of Gateshead Hall---1818" For the first time in her life, Jane saw a portrait of her mother. Jane looked again at the regular pretty features in the miniature. She could, ever so slightly, discern the face of her daughter Helen.

"Well Jane? What if she had lived? Would your life have been more comfortable? You could have been the celebrated Miss Jane Eyre of Gateshead, belle of the county."

"Nonsense Edward, you know that I would never have been sought out for my beauty. I am the poor plain daughter of a clergyman. Yes, I used to watch the Reed cousins at the parties, fuming at how unfair life was. However..."

Jane looked at her husband and smiled. "Maybe my mother would have been taken back by her family, if she were contrite enough. Could you have fallen in love with a plain and puny gentlewoman from the country? I would have been like my Reed cousins---trite, shallow and ignorant. Imagine, I could be supervising the cook and her pie making. Then, I would have to serve tea to some insipid people in my drawing room while embroidering altar cloths. Worst of all..."

She looked at her husband again. "I would have had to be the servile wife to some gentleman who would have had the right to either beat me to death or bore me to death. Tell me, husband, who in all of England would tolerate a wife who spends her days painting the ocean and sand?"

"A husband who makes sure that where she spends her NIGHTS is assured..." Edward only had one eye, but he turned it on Jane with his special gleam that had lust, love and reverence all combined.

"Edward, look at you! Close to six score, we have four children and you make me blush."

Jane was rewarded with another pinch as he murmured "Your eau de turpentine is my undoing, ma cherie..." said in the worst parody of a bad French stage accent.

Jane gave Edward another half-hearted push and looked at the miniature painting again. "What if I had not been sent to Lowood and thence to make my own way as a governess? Surely I would never have been self-reliant. I would not have made my way to Thornfield Hall. No Edward, I heard tales of how foolish my mother was, how she ruined herself and shamed the family. But, by making me an outcast, I was set free, too. Ultimately, fate has been kind—we found each other and I never have had to stifle Jane Eyre."

Edward rose to his feet, helping Jane stand and brushing the sand from her gown. "Come, ma soiree, ma artiste, ma mariee artiste, my little witch who torments me with dreams of alluring turpentine and linseed. The nurse has given Helen and little Edward their supper. You can view them sleeping--they look like angels. James and Richard are probably up to no good. I over-heard them discussing something that seemed to have the words 'fireworks' and 'north beach'. No no, don't fret---they must be boys. It is best that we plead ignorance. We have the house to ourselves, I have had the cook make a simple late tea--no NO, don't wipe the blue paint off your nose, I find it quite charming."

Jane handed him her paint box. "You can at least be useful while you simper about your plain wife and her paint-smudged face. How fortunate that I have compassion for a half blind man or else I would make you pay for your leering---guinea fowl indeed, Edward, you are incorrigible. Now YOU have blue paint on your face, too."

Arm in arm they walked the pathway from the cove to the main path and home.


End file.
